


Vintage Red

by Leoporidae_Lagomorpha



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Card Games, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoporidae_Lagomorpha/pseuds/Leoporidae_Lagomorpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Carver yearns, doesn't really hate his brother, loses at cards and buys fine wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vintage Red

**Author's Note:**

> Carver is such a loser

Lowtown reeks, Kirkwall reeks, the whole sodding city stinks of the copper from the mines, of blood, of sweat, of too many bodies packed together from the slums to Hightown's twisting streets the smell permeates everything.

Carver misses Ferelden, misses Lothering, misses Bethany, misses the old oak he used to play in with Garrett before he grew out of such childish things, but more than anything Carver misses the sky, misses the openness, the windmills and the boy he was before his twin died.

Carver hates Kirkwall, hates it as much as his brother seems ready to embrace it, ready to let go, to bury their lives before The Blight and make this cesspool of a city their home. Carver doesn't want to let go, he doesn't want to forget, he can't. Sometimes he wishes he could remake himself like Garrett, could charm people with a clever quip and a grin, could draw people to him like moths to a flame, but he's just the "Other Hawke", the little brother who can't dazzle, who can't hook people in with nothing but a smile, the pup cowering in his brother's shadow.

He's never been good at talking, it feels like all he ever manages to do when he opens his mouth is cock things up. It's been over a year and Carver isn't really sure if he has any friends of his own. The only people he interacts with on a regular basis are his brother's ragtag gang of companions: awkward straight laced Aveline, the dwarf, the self proclaimed Queen of the Seas, sweet naive Merrill _the blood mage_ , the Chantry Prince, the abomination and...the elf Fenris.

They're not bad company.

He...thinks about the elf a lot. It's hard not to, hard not to think about how he flies into battle like a whirlwind, that slight fame wielding a sword almost as big as him cutting through air like paper, startlingly white hair, lyrium markings flaring blue across his skin, glowing like a ghost, cleaving apart enemies with his blade and moving like a cat on bare toes, graceful, violent, captivating and brutal when he reaches through flesh and bone to grasp bare hearts in his fist. Fenris makes fighting an art, makes it look effortless, as natural as taking a breath.

Fenris is pointed ears, eyes that are much too green and a frown on a slanted face, quiet and imposing and unapproachable and beautiful and Carver wants him.

He's wanted before, wanting is nothing new to him.

He wants Isabela, her scandalous clothes and swaying hips, her confidence, her skill, the way she swaggers when she walks, like she's on a ship not a street, like she owns the very cobbles under her feet. He wanted to know what it was like to slide between her thighs, to feel her lips on his skin, the curves of her body under his fingertips. He wants her, to taste her and the sea kissed taste of her lips.

He wanted and Isabela was more than willing to give.

Then there's Merrill. She flutters, Merrill, like a little bird, curious and chirping and flitting from one thing to the next, but Isabela calls her Kitten and Carver thinks that suits her much better, small and innocent but not without claws, not without power. Isabela calls him Puppy. He's not sure how he feels about it most days, a pup eager to please, to impress, trotting behind his brother like a well trained pet. He doesn't like it much at all, but when Isabela looks at him and Merrill, calls them her Kitten and her Puppy, he doesn't mind so much.

 _Merrill_.

Merrill with her wide eyes and flustered laugh and her endearing naivety. He wants to hold her small hand in his, to run his thumb over the thin white scars that slash across her palm. He wants to watch her smile and ramble and talk with her hands. He wants to make her smile, to brush her hair out of her eyes and kiss her soft and sweet just like her laugh like her gentle company.

He wants sweet things, abstract things, hazier in his head than the plunging neckline of Isabela's dress. It's want, yes but it isn't the same. It isn't like being set on fire, it's more like basking in sunlight, warm and comforting.

It's not the same as what he feels about Fenris.

Carver wants him, wants him in that awful searing way that sets a fire in his belly. He wants to lick every inch of the elf's dark skin, to run his tongue along the markings, to taste the fizzle of lyrium in his throat, sharp and crackling like a summer storm. Carver wants to get on his knees and throw worship at Fenris' feet. He wants that hard lithe frame pressed against him, but more than that, more than the lust he wants to see the subtle shift of the warrior's features, that light twitch that speaks of a smile, he even wants to hear that gravelly baritone lecture him on the dangers of mages and the necessity of the Templars, could listen to the elf say anything at all really and it wouldn't really matter because he'd listen if it were Fenris.

He wants to know what there is under the sharp tongue, prickly exterior and even spikier armour. He wants the peel back layers of leather and find out who the other man really is. He's never wanted like this, never another man, never this much and...it makes knots in his chest. He wants, but he has no idea what to do with it, this isn't as simple a letting Isabela lead him to her room, or holding Merrill's hand while they browse the stalls in Lowtown...this is Fenris.

So most days, he tries not to think about it and does his best to avoid thinking about Fenris and his lips and his ears and the way he wields a sword like no creature that should be of this world and-he's not thinking about Fenris, he's very pointedly not thinking about Fenris, he's playing cards with his brother's friends at the Hanged Man and Fenris just also happens to be there.

"Folding again, Little Hawke?" The dwarf asks, one brow raised teasingly.

" 'S not my night." He mumbles, tossing his cards on the table and taking a swig of the bitter swill the tavern tries to pass off as ale.

"It's never your night." Isabela chuckles, counting out her winnings.

"It's never anyone's night when Isabela plays." Garrett chimes in from the other end of the table.

"Oh, I don't know about that." The pirate throws back. "You up for it Puppy?" She asks winking suggestively in Carver's direction.

He tries very hard to ignore how his ears go red.

"Always up for you." He says trying to sound more confident than embarrassed.

"Ah, but we've had our fun haven't we Puppy? And such fun it was." She sighs wistfully, reaching over to ruffle his hair affectionately.

"Too much information." His brother grimaces. Anders mimes retching behind him. "I need another drink."

"Pity, would've asked you to buy mine too, but I think it's about time I brought this one home." She gestures to Merrill nestled against her side, face flush with alcohol and mumbling sleepily into Isabela's hair.

"Yeah, Daisy's done for the night." Varric says serving as a support while Isabela helps the tottering elf to her feet.

There's a chorus of goodbyes as Isabela helps Merrill wobble out the door.

Carver chances a glance towards Fenris, the elf is glaring into his cup like it holds all the answers in the universe.

"Up for another hand of Wicked Grace?" He asks.

"I have no coin left to gamble." The elf replies, snorting softly and draining his cup.

"Well...um...neither do I but um...I thought we could play for fun." He tries, he just wants to spend some time with the elf.

"I don't see why not." Is Carver's unexpected reply.

"Thank-I mean good! Great!"

He seals his lips after that embarrassing display and makes to shuffle the cards, he manages not to fumble those like his words.

As it turns out Fenris is awful at Wicked Grace, he does however manage to play a better game than Carver.

"If you lose another hand you'd owe me enough for a bottle of wine, a proper one, not the piss they sell here." Fenris muses wrily.

"Alright." Carver's mouth says without consulting his brain.

"Alright?" Fenris queries.

"Alright, I'll buy you wine. A proper vintage an' everything." It must be the alcohol, it must be, he's never offered to buy anyone a fancy bottle of wine, never wanted to this badly.

"Very well then, I'll take your word." Fenris nods, the corners of his mouth twitching with the suggestion of a smile.

 _I'd like you to take more than my word,_ he thinks wistfully.

"But only if I lose and we don't know that for certain yet." He adds to make himself sound a little less eager.

"No, we do not." And Fenris smiles then, a real smile and Carver's chest aches.

He loses the next round and it's only a little deliberate.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write more of this idk tell me in the comments if u wanna see more of this trainwreck


End file.
